"No."
"Well," Fleurette almost whispered, "I think you're awful pretty!"
With that, she turned suddenly and went into the cabin.
Fancy went down-stairs slowly, biting her handkerchief. The lower deck was deserted; she looked carefully about, to make sure of it. She glanced down at the water which boiled up from the paddle-wheels and shuddered.
Overhead the stars now shone free of cloud, in the darkness of space. San Francisco was like a pincushion, stuck with sparks of light. She crossed to the port side of the boat, and saw Goat Island, a blotch of shadow, with its lighthouse, off the bow. It grew rapidly nearer and nearer. It fascinated her. When it was directly opposite, a few hundred yards away, she clenched her teeth and muttered to herself:
"Well, there's nothing in the race but the finish! This is where I get off!"
Clambering to the top of the rail, she took a long, deep breath, then flung herself headlong into the bay, and the waters closed over her.
CHAPTER XX
MASTERSON'S MANOEUVRES
Francis Granthope ran up the two flights of stairs like a boy, and pounded at Masterson's door. The doctor appeared, with his celluloid collar in one hand and a half-eaten orange in the other. He was coatless and unshorn, although his office hours, "from nine till four" had already begun. He looked at Granthope, took another bite of his orange, and then, his mouth being too full for clear articulation, pointed inside to a chair by the fireplace under the shelves full of bottles.